I know that he hoped to find Rupert of Hentzau's face within a foot of his.
Neither Rupert nor Rischenheim, nor even the old woman fronted him: a tall, handsome, dark girl faced him, holding an oil-lamp in her hand.
He did not know her, but I could have told him that she was old Mother Holf's youngest child, Rosa, for I had often seen her as I rode through the town of Zenda with the king, before the old lady moved her dwelling to Strelsau.

Indeed the girl had seemed to haunt the king's foot-steps, and he had himself joked on her obvious efforts to attract his attention, and the languishing glances of her great black eyes.

But it is the lot of prominent personages to inspire these strange passions, and the king had spent as little thought on her as on any of the romantic girls who found a naughty delight in half-fanciful devotion to him--devotion starting, in many cases, by an irony of which the king was happily unconscious, from the brave figure that he made at his coronation and his picturesque daring in the affair of Black Michael.
The worshipers never came near enough to perceive the alteration in their idol.
The half then, at least, of Rosa's attachment was justly due to the man who now stood opposite to her, looking at her with surprise by the murky light of the strong-smelling oil-lamp.

The lamp shook and almost fell from her hand when she saw him; for the scarf had slid away, and his features were exposed to full view.

Fright, delight, and excitement vied with one another in her eyes.
"The king!" she whispered in amazement.